


lay your grievances down

by shadowdance



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: After the war, Celica visits her family.





	lay your grievances down

**Author's Note:**

> assume this happens over a period of time and not throughout a whole day. other characters include dead parents and a very much alive brother; there's some background alm/celica, but it's minor so it's not worth the tag.  
> i wrote this as a stress reliever.

i.

Lima’s grave is ugly. Desaix obviously didn’t bother to give him a nice burial—just a mound of stone with the words _King Lima IV_ etched into it. The handwriting is slanted and crooked, each word clearly carved with spite and hatred. Celica thinks the palace attendants would’ve written it the same way if her father had died naturally. She’s not sure how she feels about it. 

Tangled weeds have covered the grave, almost disguising Lima’s name. When Celica tries to brush them away, thorns prickle against her skin. Brambles have reached up and hooked into the gravestone. Celica draws her hand back.

“Hello,” she says. _Father_ is shaped on her tongue but it gets lost somewhere in between. She swallows. “I wondered if Desaix even gave you a proper grave.”

Her father’s grave is isolated from the others, placed far from the other rulers. His children’s graves are the closest to his, but there’s still a wide berth between his and the eldest child’s. Even in death, the children and their father are isolated.

“Alm is king now,” Celica says. She’s not sure what else to say, and anyways, it’s not like Lima can respond. “He and I are doing the best we can. I don’t think you even _tried_.”

A bird caws, slicing through her words. Celica shuts her eyes and presses her left hand against the palm of her right one. Her mark doesn’t ache, although the rest of her body does.

“So much happened after you died,” she tells her father. “You don’t even _know—_ ” Her voice sharpens with anger, and she stops.

The gravestone stares back at her, ugly and cruel. The gravestone is mocking her.

“I have no tears for you,” Celica says, finally. “I came to say goodbye.” She picks up her flowers and squeezes her eyes shut.

 _Breathe, Celica, breathe_.

It is not her father’s voice in the wind, and she wasn’t expecting it to be. So she’s not entirely sure why disappointment crushes her lungs.

 

ii.

Her mother was not buried next to her father. She was buried in an unmarked grave, close to the castle. “King Lima was distasteful about burials,” a servant tells Celica, before she remembers that this is _Princess Anthiese_ she is talking to. Celica smiles thinly and says nothing.

A handful of graves are just outside the palace walls. Celica thinks it’s cruel that her mother was buried here and not at the priory, the place Liprica had probably loved more. 

She doesn’t know which grave is her mother’s, so she lays a flower down on every unmarked grave, every mistress that King Lima ever had. The flowers were not for her father, after all. They never could be.

There are things that Celica wants to say to her mother— _I’m sorry. I wish I knew you better. Thank you._ But her gaze sweeps over the unmarked graves, and she feels her throat burn, her stomach tighten. She doesn’t know which one is her mother’s grave.

She doesn’t know where her mother is.

Celica closes her eyes. She tries to picture Liprica’s arms circled around her, cradling her body. She tries to remember her mother’s voice and comes up empty. Her hands ball into fists, and she forces herself to remain calm.

 _Breathe, Celica, breathe_.

Her mother is safer now, safer than she was in the castle. That’s what matters.

Celica bows her head and murmurs, “I’m sorry,” and the words carry in the wind. She hopes that it reaches her mother, wherever she may be.

 

iii.

“Anthiese—? You didn’t get lost?”

Conrad isn’t wearing his mask when he opens the door, so Celica can see how wide his eyes are. His armor is tossed aside, his hair rumpled. Halcyon’s house reeks of vegetables, and there’s an apron tied around Conrad’s waist.

“I have a good sense of direction,” Celica tells Conrad. Her feet are aching from walking. Conrad laughs and ushers her in.

“Clearly. You _walked_ all the way here, from Zofia Castle?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You had a security guard with you that time.”  
  
“Conrad, it was an _army_. You were there. There were others, too, like Saber and—”

“Ah, you’re right—not a security guard. A babysitter.” Conrad grins, runs his fingers through his hair. Celica rolls her eyes and looks around, seeing scattered books on the floor. The candlelight is low, throwing shadows on the walls. Conrad leans against the table, folding his arms.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he admits. “So what brings you here?”

Celica knots her fingers together. “I went to Dad’s grave,” she blurts out, and Conrad’s eyebrows shoot up. An unusually venomous look traces his features.

“Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to visit our family.” Celica feels her heart tighten, and she can’t look at Conrad. Conrad, her last brother. Conrad, the only other person who survived that awful night.

Conrad is silent; Celica doesn't look at him, knowing she could read his thoughts across his face. She doesn't want to know what he thinks. She keeps her head low.

“Why are you still here?” Celica asks. She looks up at Conrad; his gaze is shuttered, mouth a thin line. “There’s nobody coming after us anymore. You don’t have to hide.”

Conrad’s eyes widen. He’s not good at hiding his emotions, Celica realizes; she sees panic and confusion and sadness sweep across his face. That’s why he needed his mask.

Conrad’s fingers trace over the table, digging into wood’s grooves. He looks unusually serious, vulnerable without his mask. “I—have to take care of Halcyon.”

 _Halcyon is my family_ is curled between his words. Celica blinks, and then she nods slowly, understanding.

“But don’t let that stop you from visiting,” Conrad says. He places a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you. Hey—maybe you and Halcyon can become friends!”

Celica smiles. “I’d like that.”

Conrad beams, squeezes her shoulder. Celica relaxes. It’s been awhile since she’s been with her brother, and it’s nice. She doesn’t have to remind herself to breathe.

 

iv.

 Alm has arrived first. Celica can tell, because there are footprints smeared in the dirt and the door is slightly ajar, voices flooding out; Mycen’s is a low grunt, Alm’s a quiet murmur. When Celica enters, they both look up, and Alm immediately sidles next to her.

“Hi, Grandpapa,” Celica says, her voice trembling a little. Mycen surveys her, his expression flat and serious. Mycen could look awful intimidating when he’s serious, and Celica felt her cheeks warm.

But then Mycen smiles, the lines on his face creasing, and his shoulders sag. “Oh, Celica,” he sighs. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it? The last time I saw you…”

Celica bites her lip. Mycen hadn’t gone down to the catacombs, so she and Alm were bloodstained, war-stained when he saw them again.

“You certainly look older,” Mycen muses. “War’ll do that to you.”

“You’re being…very straightforward,” Alm says. There’s a crease in his brow. “You weren’t really before.”

Mycen laughs, the sound harsh. “Alm, when you spend your retirement having to lie and lie and lie, you grow pretty tired of dancing around the point. So, what do I owe to this visit? Both of you are here today.”

Alm’s hand drops to Celica’s. She intertwines their fingers and squeezes loosely.

“I was visiting my family earlier,” Celica says. “We both were.” She doesn’t need to say anything else; Mycen sighs, nodding slowly. He leans back.

“And how has that gone?”

Celica looks at Alm. Alm looks at Celica. Neither one has asked each other how their visits have gone, but Celica notices how tired Alm looks. He’s had to see more graves than her—at least Celica had Conrad. Alm shakes his head and rubs his thumb over her palm.

“We’re healing,” Celica says. She thinks of the two lonesome graves and her brother, concealed back at the Treescape. Mycen laces his fingers together.

“And you’re here because…”

Alm says, “You’re our grandfather, Mycen.” His voice is strong and doesn’t waver. “You _know_ why we’re here.”

Mycen blinks. He looks at his old, wrinkled hands, and then at Celica and Alm’s, joined together. “Ah,” he says quietly. Then he sits up. “Well, what’re you standing for? This is your kitchen too!”

Alm laughs. He moves to sit next to his grandfather at the table. Celica hesitates, curling a strand of hair around her finger, uncertainty twisting a knot in her stomach.

_Breathe, Celica, breathe._

“Celica,” Alm says, looking up at her expectantly, “come sit.”

Celica takes a deep breath. She reaches out, and there are hands that reach to grasp hers, pulling her down next to them.


End file.
